


stage burns

by vaec (aosc)



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Assassin's Creed: Unity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 20:24:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3991576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aosc/pseuds/vaec
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It happens in a spur of intangible emotion, rid of rational thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stage burns

**Author's Note:**

> cleaned up fill from some time back in the day from the kink meme. err, i had no excuse for this when i wrote it, and i still don't.

* * *

 

Arno has to slide down from the harsh, bleak tiles of a building rotted and corroded, worn down with wear and protest, and into a stretching puddle of filth and rain, soaking his calfskin boots and thin trousers, before he can flatten himself against the rough brick wall, edge behind a crowd, to escape the guard who has chased him all the way from le Pont au Change. He clutches the thick parchment he has twisted in his fingers tightly, and weaves between three women's billowing skirts, ducked beneath the rising murmur of the people. _The fantastic people of Paris_ , he thinks, and goes around a man who staggers with fermented wine sloshing about in the unlabeled bottle he carries.

  
  
Five steps, four, Arno breathes shallowly, quickly, and the rain is relentless above, descending, never ending. Three, round a couple, the water and dirt in his boots chilled, behind him is the crowd parting for the blue clad guard, never venturing this far into la Cour des Miracles otherwise. One.  
  
  
  
He slips through the thin spring of the half open door, and shuts it with force. He releases the breath rattling in his throat.

 

"Speaketh of the Devil, and the Devil shall appear."  
  
  
  
Arno twists around, though the voice speaking is to him already familiar. The Marquis is lounging on his figurative throne, popping grapes onto his tongue, overseeing a frail child being fussed over by a shadowy woman, obviously seeking his advice. They leave as he approaches.

 

Arno snorts. "But am I not your savior?" he says, and untangles his fingers from where the court order is crumpled in his palm.

 

De Sade stills, though never allowing the smile only curving half his mouth into something superior, to dissipate. "That is indeed what makes you a devil, Arno," he replies, and gestures for Arno, circling his fingers slowly, beckoning. "For one man's savior is often another's curse."  
  
  
  
Arno climbs the steps to the most recent inhabitant of the king's seat with mock flourish, and allows de Sade to, all the whilst blinking with heavy lashes down at him, pluck the piece of parchment from his possession. Arno studies him, giving the suggestive winks merely a raised eyebrow.

 

De Sade seems unfazed, his smile widening, a slip of teeth. "My acquittance is most appreciated," he murmurs, leaning into the space stretching between them. "It shouldn't go unrewarded."

 

Arno's breath stocks, and de Sade hitches an eyebrow, crooks a finger and extends his wrist, suspended temporarily in the air, to barely scrape beneath Arno's chin. "Not to someone like you," he adds, almost contemplating.  
  
  
  
They remain for a second, and then there rustles of heavy velvet and patent leather, filtering through from their immediate surrounding, and Arno remembers that they are not quite so alone. He rears back, not hasty, but not very smooth. Something twists in his gut, branding it with heat that he suspects really, really, isn't suitable to the situation. He reaches up to pull his hood further down, to cloak his face.

 

"Your assistance, whenever required, is more than enough," Arno says, and clears his throat in an incentive to also clear the moment.  
  
  
  
He turns to leave, and de Sade's wry, light, light laughter follows him. "I will be seeing you," the newly crowned roi de Thunes calls after him, never moving. "Of course, soon enough, some unwanted - rat, if you may, might have a chance encounter with the guard currently searching for you. They may come knocking. If you are - out there," he waves two fingers flippant towards the door, a barrier between the noise inside, and outside, "Then I cannot aid your disappearance."  
  
  
  
"I've my tricks, and they usually work just fine to my advantage without - aid," Arno replies.  
  
  
  
"Ah," de Sade says, smile clipped, "By all means, then."

 

Arno cannot tell if he means it as a form of accepting defeat, or if it's a thinly veiled stab of blackened humor. It is often the latter, with the Marquis, Arno finds. He waves just above his shoulder, and walks up to the door, deciding against the immediate risk. Outside, the jostle and noise of the crowd remains, and if there is one thing he can do, it is blend.  
  
  
  
There is a single knock, and Arno freezes, frantically reaching for the Sight in the back of his skull, pressuring until it emerges in blacks and lights, washing out the remnants of wood, of stone, of a building rising tall around him. Left is only the ghost of the door swinging on its hinges inwards, and Arno has to back, reach for his rapier, parry - because the Corporal, judging by the embellishments on his breast, recognizes him, and immediately draws his sword, lunging inwards.

 

"Cretin! Heed the crown!" he shouts, and Arno sidesteps, still engaged with the flat of his sword locked.

 

He extends his sword's arm to only lightly bend at the elbow, and bodily shoves the officer off of him, putting pressure on his front foot, stepping up with the other. Think, think, he chants, inwardly. They're three remaining, and so he reminds himself of that the royal guard isn't exactly welcome here in the belly of the beggar district.  
  
  
  
"If I were you," Arno says over his shoulder to where he hazards de Sade remains, and jumps out of the trajectory of a thick axe, "I'd run, before they realize the protagonist of their chase is lounging right before them."  
  
  
  
The guard with the axe, the thickest, grunts, and spins around. _Your mistake_ , Arno notes, and unfolds his unengaged arm, a zap of lightning, around the handle of his pistol, and fires, the safety triggered off at beforehand. The officer crumbles, chips of bone, blood pooling, brain matter, but Arno has no time to stop and admire the gore at his very actions.

 

All around there erupts screaming, animalistic panic, but his eardrums shiver and pulse with the loud noise of the ricocheting bullet, so it appears only distant. He takes advantage of the momentary confusion erupting, because moments is everything he needs, operating on instinct pure. The Commanding Officer roots, as though he grows solid to the ground, and drops his sword a fraction, jaw slacking incomprehensibly, not seeing what he is watching.  
  
  
  
Arno slashes up, a flick of his wrist which reverberates into the bones and tendons, aches, the strength traveling from his toes and knees, into where he buries the broadside of his sword in the officer's bare throat.  
  
  
  
In moments of adrenaline, he rarely remembers anything but sensation, afterwards. The warmth of blood, metallic and thick, on him, and the last officer tailing it out of the building, pleas begetting him. Arno comes to, blinking blood out of his lashes, and reaches to wipe the blade of the sword haphazardly clean before sheathing it. He almost startles at the rustle of crochet and silk coming from behind.

 

"My, I'm certainly not going to lie, worry struck me for a moment," says the Marquis, "However, to miss an opportunity to watch you in action, my dear Arno -- " de Sade radiates heat from just behind him, the pendants and chains hanging to beneath his chest touching Arno's spine, fluttering. He shudders, albeit low, when de Sade puts his lips to the skin just below his ear. "What is as good a beginning of a novel, as bloodshed?"  
  
  
  
It happens in a spur of intangible emotion, rid of rational thought. Arno spins on his heel, bloody and dirty and still wet from the pour, and meets de Sade halfway in the now empty room. It is a tour de force, de Sade, littler than Arno himself, gripping at his waist so hard it will bruise with fingertips and clipped nails, and his tongue and teeth, harsh against Arno's lips. And despite this, the man himself is worryingly calm, grinning canine sharp into the kiss, never emitting a sound, as he sucks on Arno's bottom lip, grazes it with hard teeth. Arno groans, fingers tracing nonsensical patterns into the bare skin of de Sade's chest, dizzy with nerves and dopamine and the force of the high.  
  
  
  
He breaks, just for a second, pulling away, to breathe. "Really -- here?" he says, asks, not entirely able to diminish the difference, and looks at the writer. De Sade cocks an eyebrow. "You're not comfortable with exhibitionism?" he says, and tuts, mocking, before pushing Arno down and into the high seat.  
  
  
  
"I work in the shadows," Arno points out between clicks of where their teeth collide, and where he punctuates the air with groans from where de Sade trails thick red lines down his now bared chest.

 

He hums. "Mm, yes, the assassin. Your repertoire is full of scandal. Blood, murder, sodomy - where will it end, should I search?"

 

He kneels bracketing around Arno's thighs, mouth parting to bite at the length of his collarbone, one hand curling around the bulge protruding heavy through his breeches. Arno breathes through his nose, quenching the urge to rock his hips upwards. He fumbles, he's aware, palms spread on de Sade's sides, moving with little sure intent. The writer seems merely amused, curving his back until Arno feels friction, mercifully, where their cocks rub together now.  
  
  
  
"You won't," Arno murmurs into the space just below de Sade's mouth, finding his hands, somewhat his poise, and uses the pads of his fingers on the back of de Sade's skull to press, press down, until they are so close, Arno feels only hot breath on his face, eyes raking his features, the pants he wears all too constricting. Arousal curls in his stomach, hot and heavy, and his cock twitches when de Sade cants his hips just so, hard, it's a conflicting feeling of too sharp pleasure and somewhat discomfort.  
  
  
  
"Perhaps," de Sade replies, and tugs at Arno's bottom lip, sucking it until blood pools close to the skin, bruising it thick. Arno hisses, and digs his fingers involuntarily into de Sade's neck. The writer huffs a low moan then, leaning into Arno which he has not so far, except at his leisure. Arno hides the curve of smile threatening to break on his face in a kiss, and digs his nails into where de Sade's coat has slipped to reveal the first knob of his spine. The writer shudders, and shoves his hips into Arno's, grinding, whispering profanities. Arno recognizes none of them, and shuts his eyes tightly, watering, from where de Sade has picked a rhythm, and sucks discoloration into the side of Arno's neck, and where he feels his breeches soil from being so hard that he leaks.  
  
  
  
"Je vous salue Marie," Arno mutters, pure precaution where he can manage some. 

 

De Sade chuckles into the shell of his ear. "Prayers and hymns will not salvage you now, Arno," he breathes, and reaches between them to unlace Arno's trousers with entirely too nimble fingers.

  
  
  
It is over far too quickly. De Sade twists his wrist filthy, ungentle, lets go, traces two fingernails raking on the other side of hard down the shaft. Arno grips with one hand the ornate wooden back of the seat, with one white knuckled rough on de Sade's shoulder. The writer breathes shallow, and never lets Arno out of his sight, seemingly mapping every reaction as he sucks darkening marks into Arno's chest, swipes a thumb over the head, stops suddenly when Arno's stomach drops out, when he shuts his eyes tightly and his breath hitches, murmurs "Ah ah, not yet," and pinches at the base.

 

It goes on, and on, torturous - until it does not. Arno kicks out with one foot, uncontrolled, the slow burn of pleasure spiking, and de Sade tightens his fingers around Arno's cock, and he comes, groaning, shuddering.  
  
  
  
He comes to, clouds swimming in his peripheral vision, and sees the Marquis stretching out, oddly graceful for a man perpetually lounging - rather than exercising. Arno grimaces at the soil on his chest, rapidly cooling, but isn't quick to ask for anything before de Sade throws a kerchief of slippery silk at him. Arno cocks an eyebrow.

 

De Sade smirks, seemingly pleased, and straightens his low necked shirt, pulling it proper and draping across the front of his pants, obviously stained. "You may keep it," he says, as Arno wipes his stomach down quickly, and leaves it dangling from between his fingertips where it isn't wet.

 

"I'll pass," he replies, mildly distasteful.

 

De Sade climbs from where he's been above Arno, and twists his neck, the bone popping in relief. Arno sits up, quickly tucking himself in, doing up his trousers, and feels the weight of de Sade's gaze upon his figure. He colors, not entirely sure of what to do with the unfolding silence, his own figure, stained with crusting blood and semen, filthy to the bone. Dear Lord, he thinks, wry, look at me now, and stands.  
  
  
  
"Well," de Sade says, his voice feline with pleasure, "This has been - pleasant. Do drop by if you feel the urge to repeat it."  
  
  
  
Arno hums, rather stiffly, and pulls the hood up to shield the splash of bright color staining the bridge of his nose. "As long as I remain anonymous come your next novel," he mutters. De Sade laughs, seemingly non-expecting the reply.

 

"Worry not, dear Arno," the Marquis says, and grins sharply, motioning for the door, "Unless you unveil some quite unexpected fetishes, I shan't use you for research. One mustn't mix business and pleasure too often, lest it become dull."

 

* * *

 


End file.
